


Lord Reaver

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balon Greyjoy assumes his father's place as Lord Reaper of Pyke after Quellon's death.   </p>
<p>Written for the 12th round of got_exchange on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord Reaver

They placed his father’s body on the raft and lowered it slowly until it rested upon the water. From his place on the deck of the Great Kraken, Balon could see the way that the thralls’ arms strained to properly place their burden, and squinted his eyes against the glint of the setting sun on the waves that lapped against the wooden craft. Quellon’s armor glowed too, a dull burnished gold that hovered above the blackness beneath it, the arms of the kraken spread protectively across his ruined chest, concealing the damage that had been done during the battle that had ended his reign and his life. Balon himself had personally seized the precious metals that had been used to repair the cracked breastplate from the two-handed great sword that had cleaved his father’s body, rifling through lords’ quarters and filling his fists with stolen mementos from their loved ones, and coins that jangled to the deck, a dragonlord’s likeness gazing disapprovingly up at him as he bade the remaining Ironborn to carry his father’s body below. They had taken the enemy vessel easily enough, their blood heated by the insult that had been done to their captain and their lord. 

Priests of the Drowned God, dressed in their salt-stained robes, silently lowered further riches from the fateful battle onto Quellon’s chest. The best of the lot had been requisitioned to fuel the war effort and related reparations, but the cracked gems and the brass had been repurposed for the solemn ceremony. They were well out at sea, far enough away from the reach of the islands that Quellon’s body would surely find rest, beyond the reach of the faithless who would seek to rob him in death. 

“Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel,” they chanted. Balon’s gaze never left his father’s body. He could sense his brothers’ presence behind him, Victarion at his right, face grave as befitting the occasion, Euron’s quirked in what might almost be a smile, and Aeron distracted, likely by the drink that was his steady companion. But he did not think long on them. His concerns were twofold: the saltstone chair, which he must claim by right of duty and honor, and a growing resentment, that he had never really been without, for the people who had put him in this position. _Greenlander dogs who sat soft and pretty in their castles, watching their gold grow unchecked by dint of others’ labors, birthing generation after generation of more lords who would slip easily into their inherited state as though it were an embroidered doublet…_

But he bit back his anger as the eldest priest, bent and crabbed, his grey beard nearly reaching his knees, looked at him expectantly, his eyes just as sharp and clever as any young man’s. 

“What is dead may never die,” he said, his voice cutting through the air.

His brothers, and the small group clustered around the side of the ship repeated it.

“But rises again, harder and stronger.” 

The thralls released the cords, and Quellon’s bier began to sink beneath the waters. It still retained the reflected glow, for a time, but soon was lost to the murky depths. Balon wondered how his father would be welcomed by the Drowned God for his lifetime of service. Would he be accorded a place of honor at the high table among the heroes of old, and play at the finger dance with the men who only lived on in their legends? Or would he be cast down for his cooperation with the godless who dwelt on the mainland? It was not his to say, or to divine. He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves had his reasons. Quellon’s death, Balon’s ascension, all was in his design, and all would be understood in time. 

He did not speak, but merely watched as the islands grew ever larger as they approached the docks of Pyke. 

*

The throne room in Pyke was stark and bare, a few well-worn kraken banners its only concession to grandeur. Pomp would have been out of place in the narrow castle that rose sharply from the sea, and its people would not have thought to bedeck the place in rich velvets and tapestries. A chair hewn of rock and a crown of wood were enough for the Ironborn, for in their sparse majesty, they conveyed the weight of the past, and the honor of ancient heritage. 

As Balon crossed the room, he greeted each of his brothers in turn. Victarion’s face was serious as befitted the occasion, his scowl a thundercloud. But Balon knew that his brother was steadfast as always, and did not begrudge him the place that he was soon to claim. They did not exchange words; a look was enough to convey Victarion’s trust in his rule. His armor was perhaps more befitting the deck of a warship than a coronation, but he believed it to be his finest garb, for in it he defended their homeland and demonstrated his service to the Ironborn cause. Euron laid a heavy hand on Balon’s shoulder, allowing it to linger far too long for propriety and comfort, but Balon did not pull away. The eldest of his younger brothers had never quite comported himself with the propriety due his position, but he was almost accustomed to Euron’s pointed remarks laced with double meanings and suggestive gestures. His blue eye crinkled with a cold mirth as Balon moved on, but Balon no longer troubled himself with Euron, feeling the weight of his brother’s touch slip away as he passed. 

Aeron did not join his brothers along the central aisle of the room. Scanning through the clustered groups who had gathered to pay their homage, Balon did not see his youngest brother at first, and finally detected him clutching at the bodice of a serving wench. Aeron’s eyes were unfocused, clouded with the drink, and his laughter, far too loud in the solemn place, cut through the air, jangling like ill-gotten coins in Balon’s ears. At first he met the outburst with a scowl, watching as Aeron’s smile faded and he grew silent. But he knew all too well that he should not completely begrudge his brother the only comfort that he had. Aeron was in mourning. They all were, in a sense, although Victarion was far too upright to show it, and Euron too heartless. 

Urrigon by all rights should have been there with them, but he was dead, gone too soon to dwell with their god. Aeron, his closest companion, surely felt the lack the most of all. While Balon had been far too old to go about with beardless boys, and had known the boy little, he felt the sting keenly. It had been a bad death. His father’s last wife and her greenlander maester had seen to that, and while Lady Piper and her servant had fled after their protection lay bleeding to death on a distant deck, Balon would suffer them no mercy. He would not permit godless ways to grow on his shores, polluting the way of life that had seen the Ironborn through many long winters and prosperous summers. Quellon had been indulgent in his own age, had not seen how such weakness would break his people, and Balon knew that his reign would be different. He would not bend the knee to the greenlanders, would not allow himself to be impressed with their gaudy grandeur and foolish affectations. He would forge his reign with steel and blood, as his forefathers had done, and would not seek to disregard tradition and turn his back on his god. 

It would be different with him. 

He had always taken to the old ways. They were as comfortable as a well-worn garment, fitting so neatly to his self that there seemed to be nothing else save the time-tried faith of his people, and the warrior ways that had kept them for centuries. His father had discouraged reaving, taking little faith in their house’s words, preferring to keep an uneasy peace with the mainland in the hopes of growing their numbers and consolidating their power through less bloody means. But the sea had called to Balon, iron and blood had tempted him, and he had gone his own way. Quellon had not forbidden him his whims, seeing that his son must become a man in order to rule. It was Balon’s regret now that he had not been able to share in conquest with his lord father, finding a willing substitute in Dagmer Cleftjaw. They had sailed to the Stepstones, with the promise of plunder and conquest, and with envy, Balon had looked upon the older man’s rough hands, glittering with gold and jewels come from corpses. He wanted to carve a name for himself, and would do it with an axe. 

He did not fear the pirates who dwelt among the tightly-clustered islands. He rather feared himself, dreading that when the moment came, when he stood over the foe, he would not have the stomach to strike, but his worries were allayed when they came upon their first sellsair ship. Dagmer and his men boarded under the cover of night, throwing burning pitch upon the deck and through the portholes to announce their presence to the pirates who slept below. Balon had seized the lone watchman before he could sound the alarm, slitting his throat with an eerie ease, pulling the golden toque from the man’s neck. He had spilled blood, all of them had, in the confusion caused by the fire, and when it had been doused, the Ironborn had filled their own coffers with the finery in the ship’s hold. There had been many more reavings, but none quite like that first ambush. Balon had taken no more lives, but he had taken women, rutting against rough wood, the smell of perfume in his throat and the gleam of gold blinding him as he had his way with them. Saltwives, nothing more, but the need had been there, just as the urge had been to plunge his blade into flesh, and to fill his hands with precious metals. 

He had returned to Pyke a man, and his father had regarded him with a cool eye, seeing no trace of the boy he had been. From then on, he was permitted the deck in favor of the protection of their holdfast, a steel blade exchanged for a wooden one, leaving his brothers to their lessons and their games. And now there were no more childish cries to pierce the sharp sea air, now that they were men grown before him. He thought on his bride then, Alannys Harlaw of Ten Towers, and on the children they would have, warriors who would take his place, who would set sail in their longships and cross the world, who would keep to the Ironborn way of life and who would, one day, join him at feasting tables below the waters that crashed against their small cluster of islands. She was there, Alannys, although he could not make her out in the dimness and confusion, surely there with her brother, quiet Rodrik with his books, so strange yet unafraid to raise a blade when called. Her sister Gwynesse might lurk in the shadows as well, newly wed, her sharp tongue ringing out in the din.

And then, it was all over. Balon had reached the saltstone chair at last, the chair that had borne countless men before him. It was plain and bare and homely, but the weight of their deeds was enough. It needed no flocked velvet to comfort its lord, no twisted swords to convey its fearsome heritage. On the seat rested the driftwood crown, scarred and worn smooth from the brows of Greyjoy upon Greyjoy. Balon lifted it, and turned, facing the hall. His eyes lingered on his brothers, on the gleam of steel in the low light, on the way that the sea air made the candle flames bend and flicker. The priests clustered before the throne began to mutter their blessings, bowing their heads, asperging its base with water drawn from the sea. He sat then, regarding all, the driftwood crown in his hands, seeming heavier now. He thought of his father, how Quellon had sat tall and proud, and yet how he had humbled himself before lesser men despite the honors that he had worn so nobly in this place. 

Cheers erupted from the people, his people, and Balon sat still and stern as they echoed in the drafty hall. He placed the crown, nothing more than driftwood, on his brow. He did not mind the weight.


End file.
